Without Love
by shinchansgirl
Summary: for writersfunk. for a witch. Life has been bleak for the Boy Who Lived since Voldemort took over, but he's not going to give up on living just yet. implies future LVHP.
1. Chapter 1

**Without Love**

_for: a witch_

Series: Harry Potter  
Pairing: Voldemort/Harry  
Request: Voldemort/Harry  
Word Count: 465

Note: sorry this is kinda late. I had an idea for it, and then that became something larger...and now is turning into a HUGE project, which won't be released for a while yet. I'm going to FINISH it first.  
The Voldemort/Harry is very light in this, and is more of something to come than is now (although you could say that's why Harry isn't dead yet).

anyways, on with the fic!

* * *

His head hurt from the drugs, but that was okay. A lot of things hurt now. Not that they hadn't hurt before, but before it'd hurt in a different way. Before it was emotional – it was watching his friends return one by one, hurt and shattered by the war. Before it was the death of Sirius, and the death of Dumbledore.

Mooney's death had been the last.

He'd surrendered to Voldemort, in exchange for his friends' lives.

At first, it was the little things. They'd make him go for days without food, lock him in a cell and strip him of his clothes. Whip him, beat him, kick him – whatever they could think of.

It wasn't so bad then. He'd had similar treatment at the Dursley's. Not as bad, perhaps, since they'd let him use the bathroom – they hadn't wanted "that stink" in their cupboard – and let him keep his clothes, but similar, all the same. It was just another form of "Harry Hunting", but this time Harry couldn't run.

Then things got worse. They added spells to the mix of muggle beating, and tortured him in ways the Dursleys never would have thought of. They made him scream, they made him beg, and they made him cry.

He didn't die, though. He was sick and bleeding and weak, but he wasn't dead.

Voldemort had sneered at him, the last he'd seen him. This time, Harry looked a little better – his skin was clean of blood, except from the few wounds that wouldn't stop, and his bruises were faded on his front, if not his back.

They were alone. Harry knew that Voldemort intended to kill him – it was the end to the torture that he knew was coming, but still had trouble accepting. He didn't want to die.

"Tell me, Harry Potter, why I should not kill you," Voldemort commanded.

Harry knew that whatever he answered would be wrong – that gleam in Voldemort's eyes promised death, an end to the torture and an end to life – but he knew he needed to try.

"Because – " he coughed, grabbing at his chest though it hurt, and the bent position pulled at the whip marks across his back. "Because of all the things you've done to me, you have not done the worst," he finally said, wheezing, as he caught his breath.

"And what is that?"

Harry coughed, spitting out blood. "You haven't loved me, and then left me."

Voldemort didn't kill him.

Harry's consciousness faded in and out with the drugs that kept him docile – kept him still. He knew there were others handling him, but he didn't care much about it anymore. He knew the end was coming, but he didn't know when or how – he could only hope that it was not soon. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Without Love  
Part Two**

_for: Madd Girl, Merrymow, Barranca, BlueEyes White Dragon Sorcerer, Werewolf777, ura-hd, and Lady Gaidin_

Series: Harry Potter  
Pairing: Voldemort/Harry  
Request: continue "Without Love"  
Word Count: 1060

NOTE: as to the question of whether or not this will be a tragedy or if Harry's life will be spared indefinitely...I'm not sure yet. Most likely, this fic will end as a tragedy. However, it is a well-known fact that I am an absolute sucker for happy endings, so it may end on a brighter note. :)

* * *

Harry pulled and tugged at the chains as much as he could, the cold metal fastened to a ring some Death-Eater had stuck to the brick with a charm he hadn't recognized. The length was short – he couldn't move his hands without his fingers or his palms scraping the brick of the fireplace, and he couldn't get any leverage either. The rug that had been placed under him slid when he pushed hard enough, but seemed to be charmed to stay beneath him, as it moved forward when he did as well.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd have had his glasses returned, but they had been broken long ago. His knuckles were turning red as well from the constant rough feel of the brick, and no one had bothered to give him any clothes.

Of course, sitting as close to the fire as he was, that might have been a good thing.

Harry guessed that he should be grateful that he was, at least, alive, and that he wasn't bleeding any more, but that wasn't enough to satisfy his want for freedom – for his life.

Shifting, he pressed the balls of his bare feet against the wall of the fireplace and pulled again, pushing the hair out of his eyes with a loud exhalation of air when the rug slid again. Not one to give up, he tried again.

"Stop that," Voldemort's voice chided from the doorway. A glance told Harry that the man stood there, looking faintly amused. "You'll hurt yourself."

Harry didn't mention that Voldemort's men had done worse – much worse – than scrape up his knuckles and wrists. Heck, the only thing they hadn't done was rape him, which he was fairly glad of – he wasn't certain how something like that worked, but he imagined that it would be painful. Not to mention the fact that most people, as far as he knew, found it to be disgusting.

He gave another tug on the chains – what was one more bruise, when his entire body had been one not long before? – in defiance, glaring at the wall, not daring to look over at the Dark Lord.

"If you want something, Harry, you need only ask for it. If it is possible, I will grant it."

"I want nothing from you except your own death," Harry snarled, angry. He'd thought that he was going to die; now that he knew death wasn't in his immediate future, and that he'd been healed, some of his Gryffindor courage was returning to him. He gave another small tug on the chains.

Before he could realize that the other had moved, Voldemort was sitting behind him, rubbing circles on his bare stomach with one cold hand while the other wrapped around his upper body, keeping him still – not that he could have gone far anyways. "I thought I told you to stop that," he scolded again, but the voice was gentle, despite the grating rattle of Voldemort's breath. He wasn't threatening, and the hands were trying to be soothing.

It nearly made Harry sick to his stomach.

"All you need to do is ask," Voldemort continued, "and I will lengthen the chain – provide you with clothes and food. All it takes is a few simple words: 'May I please have my chain lengthened?'"

"Why don't you take your _chain_," Harry spat, "and shove it up your _ass_."

Voldemort didn't say anything – didn't punish him, or even scold him – all he did was continue rubbing those circles on Harry's stomach, over his ribs, making Harry's stomach queasy without realizing it. Harry fumed, pulling down on his chains as much as he could without the movement of his arms, but it wasn't enough to be effective.

It was hours later before Voldemort pulled away from the tired, sweaty body that was the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry was panting, much too warm from both the fire and the warm, clothed body against his. Voldemort's close presence was also draining still, and being so close to him for hours made Harry ill more from the strain than from the touch. The dark-haired boy leaned against the rough brick, not caring that it was scratching up his entire side.

"Just ask it, Harry, and you can be moved to sleep in the bed."

Harry closed his eyes. He was tired – he couldn't even remember being healed – there was just a long, torturous amount of beatings, and then that question that had kept him alive. And then he was here, in this sparse room. Well, not truly sparse – just sparse of useful things, like clothes, a wand, and food. The bed was luxurious enough, Harry had seen. The sheets looked to be made of nice, cool silk, and there were books and a desk. More than that, he couldn't tell – but there wasn't a closet, or a chest of drawers, that much he could see.

"Harry?"

"Fuck you," Harry whispered.

Voldemort clucked in disappointment. "That wasn't what I wanted to hear, Harry. I know you're tired, so I'll make it easier for tonight. Just nod your head for yes, and shake for no. Would you like me to move you to the bed now?"

Harry simply breathed for a few moments, until he realized that Voldemort wouldn't leave without an answer.

He didn't open his eyes – wouldn't let Voldemort see the shame there – when he moved his head up and down.

He heard the swish of a wand as Voldemort took the chain down, and let himself limply be carried over to the bed. He would have fought – would have lashed out – if he weren't so tired and drained. Within moments, he felt the cool sheets against his back, and his arms were pulled over his head, the chain fastened to the headboard.

Harry didn't open his eyes again until after he heard Voldemort leave. Slowly, he felt the pain in his scar fade – it was a pain he had forgotten over the hours sitting nearly in the Dark Lord's lap. He nearly laughed when he remembered how it used to be so bad, he couldn't think, but he held the chuckles in. He had a feeling that, if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop.

When the pain was gone, there was only exhaustion left, and Harry found himself falling unwillingly into a deep and much-needed sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

Without Love by shinchansgirl  
Chapter Three 

Fandom: Harry Potter  
Pairings: eventual Voldemort/Harry  
Rating: R  
WARNINGS: dark fic, Harry-torture, Harry could be seen as a slave. WIP - other warnings may follow.  
Spoilers: deviation of plot; no detailed knowledge of the books needed; Voldemort-wins scenario.

* * *

Harry woke up to the feeling of a cool cloth against his forehead. He allowed the wet cloth for a few minutes before he blinked open his eyes. He knew it wasn't Voldemort - his scar wasn't hurting more than a dull ache at the moment - but he couldn't see much more than a blonde blob before him.

Of course, there weren't that many people with white-blonde hair. It had to be a Malfoy - the elder, judging by how large he seemed.

"Waking up, I see," the blonde said, confirming the thought that it was Lucius Malfoy, and not his son. "Don't try to move - you have a fever. Our Lord caused quite a bit of strain on your bond yesterday, and you need some time to recover."

"...bond?" Harry asked, confused, as the older man wiped the sweat off his face again. He tried to bring his hands to his face, only to realize that they were still chained to the headboard.

"Through the scar. You do realize that by fighting him you are making it worse."

"...hunh?"

"Intelligent, I see," Malfoy scoffed. "Really, Sev, how did you put up with the likes of him in your classes?"

"It wasn't an easy task. I won't say that he's any better at the moment either. The scar created a mental bond between you and the Dark Lord - it linked your minds, Potter, do you understand?"

Harry couldn't see the other man, but he recognized the voice. He nodded.

"The pain is a result of that. The Dark Lord has mental shields around his mind, so he is unaffected by your...attacks on him, and they are rebounding back on yourself. You are, in effect, causing your own pain. Sending feelings of anger toward him is like cursing your own mind."

Harry sighed, and turned his face to bury his nose in his elbow. He realized that he must smell horrible; he couldn't remember the last time he had a shower or a bath, unless he counted the time all the blood had been removed when he was presented to Voldemort.

His stomach rumbled - and not in a good way. Harry held his breath for a moment before speaking up. "Uh...Professor?"

"What?"

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

Malfoy pulled him up and rolled him onto his side, rubbing circles on his bare back. Harry couldn't understand it - he could feel his stomach rebelling, feel the air coming up and gagging him, and a small knot of snot-colored bile left his mouth, but he didn't actually throw up. It was both disgusting and dizzying. His nose burned.

A cool hand touched his forehead as he let his head fall on his arm. "You still have a bit of a fever, but I expect this is more due to a lack of food than any real illness," Snape said. Harry could see the blurry black form beside the other man now, both almost hovering over him. "Luce, hand me that bowl of broth, would you?"

It took some maneuvering to get the bowl to his mouth without straining his neck or his arms, but they managed. Harry heard one of them banish the mess he had made while he began swallowing the bland chicken broth held to his lips. He did his best to only sip instead of gulping it, and found that Snape wouldn't let him gulp too much at a time.

He was half asleep as he felt himself being laid down again. He couldn't help but think that it didn't matter what those two thought - he hated Voldemort and always had, for as long as he knew the man existed. He wasn't about to stop now.

Of course, his scar had never hurt before Hogwarts, either - when he didn't know Voldemort, and didn't know to hate him.

Harry ignored that small little fact.

* * *

When Harry woke again, he felt better. He did his best to clear his mind as Snape had once tried to teach him, and found that simple exhaustion was giving him a slight advantage - he was still so tired that he just didn't care. He didn't even care about the slight pressure of his scar.

Voldemort was in the room. Shifting slightly, he could see the other man sitting on a chair by the fire, reading.

And then it registered that he could see. Not as clearly as with his glasses, true, but he could see well enough to define the chair from the person and the person from the book.

"Severus has been brewing a potion to help correct your eyesight," the Dark Lord explained. "Since he thought that it might help to calm you, I agreed to it. The first dose was administered while you were sleeping, but the rest will have to be done while youre awake. Before you sleep each night, there is both a potion and eye drops. After a week, you should be able to see normally, and you can stop taking the potion. The eye drops will have to continue for a year before the changes hold."

Harry tugged on the chains around his wrists and tried to find a way to sit up without getting awkwardly tangled.

"I thought I told you to stop that," Voldemort said, almost sighing. "Youre going to hurt yourself. Youve starved yourself sick as well. All you need to do is ask, pet, but you must ask."

"I'm no ones pet."

"You are," Voldemort contradicted. It was nothing more or less than a statement of fact. "You have been for quite some time. You've been someone to beat for entertainment for my loyal followers, although it seems they didn't quite manage to beat you into submission. And now you are my pet. A pet I'm willing to indulge to a certain extent. For now, while you are healing, I'll ask nothing in return for these favors except your company - but you will get better, pet, and when you do we will have either come to an understanding, or you will be forced into an understanding."

"Bastard..." Harry hissed, tugging on the chains as Voldemort drew closer.

"Such language, dearest," the Dark Lord tsked. "Here's an example; while you're healing, I'll allow it - were you healthy and you called me such, you would learn your place with a beating."

Harry curled up as best he could without turning his back on the other man as Voldemort drew closer.

"I thought you wanted to be loved," the older man said as he sat down on the bed. "Wasn't that what you said before? 'You haven't loved me'? I'm offering you what you wanted - it isn't fair of you to turn it down."

"This isn't love," Harry snapped. "This is your sick idea of a game."

"That hurts, dearest. Did I not give you a soft, clean bed to sleep on? Did I not offer you food to fill your stomach, and summon my best healers when you fell ill? Lucius may not look it, but he is well versed in the spells of healing and curse breaking. Severus has the knowledge of potions that is slowly giving you back your sight. Can you tell me that these are things you didn't want? Your own bedroom, complete with a soft mattress and clean sheets, your eyesight returned - your life and health?"

Harry ducked his head. He couldn't say that those were things he didn't want, but weren't those things that every person wanted? Weren't those things that most people had, and took for granted?

Voldemort stood without attempting to touch him. "I'm going to be over by the fire, pet. Remember - all you need to do is ask, and I will grant you what I can."

Harry watched him go, waiting until he sat down before slipping back down the sheets, relieving the pressure where his elbow had nearly twisted to let him sit up.

It wasn't even ten minutes before he grew bored of simply staring at the ceiling with nothing to do. His face went red as his stomach grumbled at him for neglecting it, eager for some food.

Voldemort looked up, and once again set aside his book.

"Hungry, Harry?"

"No."

"Your body is saying otherwise, so forgive me for trusting its judgment over yours. I have realized in these past few days that you are incapable of caring for yourself, and so I will do so for you - whether you like it or not."

Harry glared, and curled up once more as he realized Voldemort was approaching him with another bowl of something - at least, it looked like a bowl.

Of course, his arm protested this sudden movement, twisting at the wrist, and Harry cried out at the pain.

In an instant, he had hands on him, uncurling him, and examining him. "I told you not to pull on those," the Dark Lord chided. "Avery!"

The door opened, and Harry vaguely realized that the man must have been waiting outside in the hall for a summons.

"Bring Lucius here."

The man left.

Harry shuddered as Voldemort kissed the wrist and ran hands down Harry's sides, trying to still his shivers, not caring that he was the cause of them and not caring that he was making them worse. He cast a careful levitation spell and the bowl floated over to his hand. "While we're waiting, let's get some of this into your belly, all right?"

Harry turned his head away.

"Come now, Harry, I know you must be hungry. Eat. Severus had the houselves make it special so that you can replace the nutrients your body has lost. You should be back to solid food in no time."

Harry didn't answer.

"If you don't eat, I will _make_ you eat. You're too weak at the moment to resist the _Imperius_."

Harry glared at him, but turned his head and opened his mouth, nearly choking on the first mouthful as the Dark Lord held the bowl for him, pouring the thick broth down Harry's throat.

_Maybe,_ Harry thought, _if I build up my strength, I can escape._

_Maybe._

TBC... 


	4. Chapter 4

Without Love by shinchansgirl  
Chapter Four 

Fandom: Harry Potter  
Pairings: eventual Voldemort/Harry  
Rating: R  
WARNINGS: dark fic, Harry-torture, Harry could be seen as a slave. WIP - other warnings may follow.  
Spoilers: deviation of plot; no detailed knowledge of the books needed; Voldemort-wins scenario.

* * *

Harry stayed still as Lucius healed the damage to his wrist, and even managed not to spit out the first taste of Skele-Gro Severus handed him. It was while the two were in the room, checking him over for any other damage, that he managed to swallow his pride and ask: "May I sit up?"

Neither Severus nor Lucius paused in their work, but Voldemort looked smug as he waved his wand to lengthen the chains on his wrists a few inches. It wasn't enough to leave the bed, but it was enough to sit comfortably against the headboard with a few pillows propped between.

Harry looked away. He couldn't stand making Voldemort that happy, not even if it was necessary for him.

"Try to take it easy on those wrists," Lucius scolded. "Even if the Skele-Gro has enough time to work, repeated breaks never heal quite as strong as they once were."

Harry nodded to show he understood, but didn't look up into the other's face. He didn't think he was quite ready for that yet.

"How is he faring, Lucius, Severus?" Voldemort asked.

"Still not as strong as he should be, Master," Snape answered. "He's undernourished - far more than we can account for, despite looking into his situation - but progressing nicely with the supplements. It seems that most of his injuries from his time in the cells have healed, which is unusual but not unheard of. His magic seems to be supplementing his body's ability to heal, which explains why he sleeps more and seems weaker physically. Magic is, after all, not able to substitute real food and rest."

"If I may, sire," Lucius said, "it also seems that he is not simply reluctant to fulfill his own needs, but un_able_. From what I can tell, his body no longer reacts normally to hunger and thirst, and while it is clear that his injuries hurt, there seems to be a...block to caring for them, is the best I can think to explain it." He frowned, a confused look crossing his face. "It's as if he doesn't acknowledge the fact that there is an injury, even while his magic works to heal it as quickly as possible. It may be a result of his former treatment in the cells, or possibly from injuries as a child, before Hogwarts; muggle treatments do tend to be somewhat unappealing, after all."

"But he is healing?" Voldemort asked, after a moment.

"Yes," Lucius said. "Very well, even. But...I would not trust him with his own health, were he my own son."

"Thank you. You are dismissed."

Both men bowed before sweeping out.

Harry almost pouted on the bed, but thought it best to simply ignore the fact that he was alone in a room with Voldemort.

After all, how much worse could it get?

"Are you ready to try to eat again?"

Harry hung his head. He really, really did not like this place.

"I asked you a question."

"Why bother?" Harry asked, tone weary. "It's not like I have a choice."

"But you do," Voldemort countered. "You have the choice between doing so on your own or being forced. I think you know the difference between the two." Harry saw him moving closer, but didn't raise his head. "Now, again, are you ready to try and eat?"

"If I say no, will you leave me alone?"

Voldemort chuckled lightly, a sound that grated on Harry's nerves. "I can't leave you to neglect yourself - however, if you _do_ eat, I might be willing to give a small reward." The man had settled down on the side of the bed, his hand on Harry's ankle, gently rubbing. Harry tried to pull it away, but Voldemort's grip was tight. "You won't even have to ask for it. Perhaps...a book to read, during the day, or a puzzle. Of course, all you have to do is ask, and you can have those things anyways."

Harry didn't speak, but he did eat. Voldemort was true to his word, providing Harry with both books and puzzles to entertain himself with.

Harry thought it was somewhat ironic that he couldn't see enough to use either.

* * *

Harry didn't ask for the hard-covered books or puzzle boxes to be removed from the bed before he attempted to steal a few moments of sleep, and so they weren't. He was actually more comfortable with them there; it was less likely that someone else would climb into the bed with him without waking him, and was one less thing he'd have to ask for later. 

When he actually _could_ read.

He took small naps when he was alone, for the brief moments Voldemort left the room. Harry just didn't feel comfortable sleeping with the other man there with him - it gave him the creeps.

Of course, eventually Voldemort returned and Harry forced himself to wakefulness when he felt the other come near. It was another mealtime; to Harry, it was another battle. He'd determined that he was going to work his way towards getting stronger, and that he was, eventually, going to break free - but Voldemort didn't need to know that, and Harry wasn't about to make things easier on his captor.

"It's time for dinner," Voldemort announced casually, seating himself, once again, on the edge of the bed closest to Harry and claiming one of the thin ankles to rub. Harry hadn't been quite quick enough to evade the grasp. "Are you up for another meal?"

Harry shifted closer to the headboard, sitting up, and Voldemort let the foot escape his hold. Immediately, Harry curled his legs closer to himself, huddling near his pillows. "If I wanted another 'meal' I would have asked for one. Aren't those the rules of your little 'game'?"

"I've told you before, pet, that this isn't a game. You told me that I have never loved you - and so that is what I am giving you. That means, dearest, that I take care of you and give you what you ask for - within reason. But taking care of you also means giving you what you need even when you neither want nor ask for it."

Harry wrapped his arms around his legs. "Fine, you want me to ask for something? Could you _please_ go crawl into a hole and die?" The sarcasm was thick in Harry's voice. "Maybe that way this humiliation will be over with, and I can leave this place."

Voldemort's eyes flashed. "If humiliation is what you want," he snapped, "then humiliation is what you will receive. Just remember that this is what you asked for, pet, and all you have to do for it to stop is to ask."

The wand Harry could barely see flicked, and Harry barely had time to register that he was no longer chained to the bed before he realized what _was_ happening. His hands, cuffed together in front of him, were connected to a collar by thin chains. He felt the push-pull-tug of side-along apparition, and suddenly he was in what looked to be a throne room, being shoved down onto a pillow-covered floor, his hands jerked above his head to be hooked onto something.

And then Voldemort was kneeling before him, rubbing _something_ on his chest that smelled awful, and he had just enough mind to remember Hermione's stern lecture, back in the corner of some unused classroom, about the dangers of date-rape drugs, and how her parents had told her about some kids who thought they were fun.

He thought that this might be similar, since his head was feeling a bit fuzzy and he seemed to be drifting off for no reason at all - he certainly wasn't that tired anymore. He was a bit hungry, though, and he felt a distant pressure in his bladder that was a sign he had to pee.

There was another spell, but Harry didn't hear what it was. He didn't notice any changes, though.

Until people started coming in the room.

_Then_ Harry noticed that Voldemort's 'throne' had a table in front of it, and that there were other tables, too, all covered with plates and utensils. It was, he remembered, dinnertime. Everyone was coming into Voldemort's equivalent of the Great Hall to eat - all those who were here, at least.

Harry shifted a bit. So this was what Voldemort had meant by 'humiliation'... That his followers got to see him high on drugs, belly growling and eyes fighting to stay open. He wondered what the point was - most of theses people had already seen him naked after all. He didn't like it, but he couldn't change it either.

Well, fine. He wasn't ashamed. He'd seen other boys in the locker room, and knew what he had wasn't exactly something to scoff at. And it wasn't like it was his fault, either - how could it be? He hadn't asked for this.

The thought almost made him laugh. Who would ask to be drugged out of their mind? The feeling was extremely creepy, and made him a bit nauseas. He realized absently that it wasn't a date-rape drug, because if it was and it made the victim nauseas, then that was just sick.

_"If they don't use some sort of lubricant,"_ he heard Hermione's voice saying in his ear, _"then there might be tearing, and then you absolutely **need** to see a mediwitch - not that you shouldn't anyways - so that she can stitch you up."   
_

_"Gawd, Hermione, you make it sound like some sort of - of - mechanical thing."   
_

_"It's a proven fact, Harry."   
_

_"It's not like I'm going to go out and get raped by a guy! Who does that sort of thing, anyways?"   
_

_"The same people who hand out roofies to girls and then take them back to their rooms."   
_

_"Yeah, well, I'm not a girl. And while all this stuff is great, I don't think Cho's going to be taking me back to her room just to stick something up my butt."_ His face had been red, and he'd been speaking quickly - he remembered being so very nervous, and so very awkward. Had it really been so little time since he'd last seen her? It seemed like forever. _"I think she'd be more inclined for, you know, getting something in her."   
_

_"Some girls like both,"_ Hermione had snapped. _"I don't want you getting hurt. You didn't see the article - the guy had to get five stitches because of it, and his attacker had even been careful with him!"   
_

_"Yeah, well, this is Hogwarts,"_ Harry had told her. He didn't remember pouting, but it seemed like he should have been, looking back at it now. The way she had backed off, he might have been. _"That stuff doesn't happen here. We're more likely to get burned by one of Hagrid's pets - or carted off by centaurs."_

Harry groaned; he couldn't think through his fuzzy mind. His head kept drifting between what was happening now, and that awkward conversation with Hermione. She'd mentioned Health classes in summer school that had covered what was what, what went where, and even a brief clip of what went where in slightly different situations, and how that was dangerous. He wasn't even sure why it was that memory he was focused on; he remembered being scared for a few nights, because he wasn't gay, and having Hermione's warnings floating through his mind had made him nervous, but he'd almost forgotten about it since then.

The pressure in his bladder was building, and he didn't see any reason why he should let it - it wasn't like he wanted to torture himself or anything. He let it go, relieving himself, drifting in and out of awareness.

The sound of muffled laughter brought him back down, and the realization that he had just peed on himself in full view of others like some two-year-old slammed into him like a glass of cold water. He gasped, the action collapsing his stomach and making him nauseas again.

"Please," he found himself whispering, closing his eyes against the amused faces of the crowd. He could almost hear their remarks, hear the ridicule.

"What is it, pet?"

He couldn't see Voldemort, and he squeezed his eyes to keep them shut so that the other couldn't come into his view. "Please," he whispered, "stop this."

The change was disorienting in the immediate nature of it. He was back in the room, gasping for air, his hands still cuffed as they had been before. It was as if he had never moved, there wasn't even a wetness on his legs.

"That was merely a _vision_ of what humiliation could be like," he heard Voldemort state, his voice matter of fact. "One of many that have crossed my mind."

"Your mind is a very sick place," Harry gulped, closing his eyes and willing his body to calm down, to assess itself, and feel if he was sore anywhere new. He wasn't. He remembered the bond, and Severus' warning against the defenses. If Voldemort could defend, then it stood to reason that the man could attack too.

"That wasn't very nice, pet. I pulled you out when you asked."

"I..." Harry trailed off, almost unable to say it, but plowed on with stuttering breath: "You drugged me," he accused, "and made me - made me - in front of people - " He couldn't finish it.

"Wet yourself?" Voldemort asked, finishing the thought for him. "Lose control? Act like a child? You were acting like one before, it was no different."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, curling tighter. "I am not a child. And I'm not a-acting like one."

"That is only a matter of opinion - and I think you can guess who's opinion matters here. I can make the vision real. I can make worse real, if you force my hand."

Harry felt his breath hitch, and he felt like saying that once was enough, thank-you-very-much. He felt like saying _"I don't like being raped"_, but he didn't want to put the idea into Voldemort's head. Why, oh _why_, did he have to remember that conversation with Hermione? Why _that_ one?

He didn't say it. He just lay there, eyes shut tight against the world, and tried to breathe like a normal person, trying to push back the realization that Voldemort could take that from him. Could take away his first time, take away his choice.

Could really rape him. Or even, as the vision suggested, leave him vulnerable.

"I don't want to," he found himself saying. He would not admit to crying, even though there were tears leaking down his face. It didn't really fit the true situation of the vision, but what it had reminded him of - that, he really didn't want.

"Then don't make me."

"I - " Harry stuttered to a halt, and had to breathe, open his eyes, and breathe again, deep. "I'm ready to eat."

"Good. Afterwards, Severus' potion is ready, along with the first of the eye drops. You can get some sleep when we're finished."

Harry didn't answer, taking another deep breath as he sat up, still huddling close to himself and keeping clear of Voldemort touching him in any way.

As he took the first few bites of soup, he willed his heart to stop beating so wildly. It didn't happen until Voldemort left the room.

TBC... 


End file.
